


Twisted Fates.

by Anomalousy



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angsty Will Graham, Biting, Blanket Permission, Blow Jobs, Bottom Will Graham, Canon-Typical Violence, Control Issues, First Time, Hannibal (TV) References, Hannibal Lecter Has a Crush, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, Hannibal Lecter is a Tease, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, One Night Stands, POV Alternating, Rimming, Someone Help Will Graham, Top Hannibal Lecter, or is it?!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2019-10-11 18:04:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17451803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anomalousy/pseuds/Anomalousy
Summary: If there is one thing that Hannibal Lecter will simply not tolerate, it’s rudeness.So when he encounters a scruffy, discourteous stranger at a hotel bar, he considers taking action. The course of that action, however, alters when he learns a little more about the man in question: an unusually fascinating creature named Will.OrHannibal encounters a rather rude Will for the first time at a hotel bar; one thing leads to another and, to Hannibal’s surprise, that other thing turns out not to be murder.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever attempt at Hannigram fic and the first fanfic I’ve written in several years so I hope I’m not too rusty.  
> Edit: I initially intended this fic to be only three or four chapters long with the possibility of a sequel, but it now (having just posted Chapter 3) looks as though it will be longer and overall more of an alternative Season 1 fic. Just so you know! 
> 
> Feedback would be much appreciated! <3

 

“I believe I was waiting to be served before you.”

“Yeah? Well, if you aren’t fast, you’re last, so…”

Hannibal feels his nostrils flare, his skin prickle with irritation, as he glares at the surly, scruffily-dressed stranger across the bar, who had scuttled through the quiet hotel lounge, leaned heavily on the counter and barked his order - _double bourbon, neat_ \- at the bartender (who’d barely finished setting a cocktail in front of another patron) without a thought for social propriety. If the action in and of itself had crossed the line of discourtesy, his response to Hannibal’s entirely fair and equanimous comment, uttered without even the decency to look in his direction, had traipsed into the territory of damnable bad manners, and if there is one thing that Hannibal Lecter will simply not tolerate, it is rudeness.

He watches surreptitiously as the man downs the drink in one before sucking air through his teeth and pushing a forefinger and thumb underneath his thick-rimmed glasses to pinch at the bridge of his nose. The stranger has the decency, after that, to wait until the bartender has poured Hannibal’s glass of Barolo before motioning for a refill and asking, “Do you have any aspirin?”

The bartender shakes her head no and purses her lips as she tops up his empty glass. The stranger heaves a sigh in response and raises a hand to rub a knot of tension from his neck before his eyes land on Hannibal, remaining briefly before, realizing he’s been caught looking, defensively darting away.  
  
Hannibal swirls his wine, inhales the rich aroma of tar and roses, and observes the strain in the man’s shoulders, the world-weary posture, while considering the best course of action to take. There’s no denying that there’s a classically handsome face underneath a riot of dark Botticelli curls (although most alluring, Hannibal isn’t entirely swayed by this; he knows only too well that even the most beautiful people can house unspeakable ugliness within). Thick stubble caresses his jaw - too unkempt to be there by design, the scruff of one who doesn’t care to shave - and frames well-formed, lightly chapped lips that are set in a deep, contemplative frown. He’s slim - a little on the underfed side, perhaps - but looks to be strong enough, sinewy, underneath a crinkled grey blazer and mismatched green flannel shirt. He cradles the bourbon glass protectively in his hand (which bears no sign of a wedding ring), eyes pinched as he stares at the amber liquid within. Hannibal finds himself intensely curious to learn more. Initial rudeness aside, this man doesn’t have the overall bearing of a boor; rather, he looks pained, like a lost soul in need of succor.

Certainly, he could let the indiscretion go; enjoy his wine and retire to his room. He had, after all, taken care of one pig already within the last twenty-four hours (a dissembling politician, religious zealot and proponent of gay conversion therapy who had a well-known penchant for the young men he sought to ‘cure’), but…there is little else around to distract him this evening, save for the few amorphous hotel guests and the faux-classical musak humming in the background, and Hannibal knows himself; an unapologetic hedonist by nature, he enjoys the pleasures of the flesh in myriad ways. He simply will not deny himself the satisfaction of either seduction or slaughter should such opportunities present themselves.

Tack decided upon, he slides around the corner of the bar to get closer before speaking. The man doesn’t react to his proximity; he seems to have retreated into deep thought as he stares into the middle-distance wearing a slightly haunted expression. _How best to subdue your pain?_ Hannibal wonders.

He thrills when his voice startles the man out of his reverie; blue eyes, deep set with melancholy, flit towards him without actually meeting his own. “I heard you requesting aspirin from the bartender. I have painkillers in my room upstairs, should you find yourself indisposed.”

The man blinks, surprise turning to incredulity as he looks Hannibal over. “It’s fine. Thanks,” he says and huffs out a breath of bitter laughter before lifting his drink. “First time I’ve heard that one used as a pick-up line, though.”

“Not at all,” Hannibal demurs, unleashing his most charming smile as he leans an elbow casually on the bar. “Merely a Doctor’s professional concern.”

“And now you’ve managed to tell me you’re a Doctor,” the man turns at that, angling his body towards Hannibal, tilting his chin towards him without - yet again - making eye contact, considering. “I’d bet that one usually works for you.”

Hannibal doesn’t reply to that, simply maintains his smile, pleased at the absence of an outright rejection, and allows his silence to act as an admission of culpability while he watches the other man intently; takes in the subtle defiance in the clench of his jaw, the frown that softens to a sardonic smile as he looks back at his drink, raising his brows, before asking, “Shouldn’t we at least pretend to get to know each other a little first?”

“What would you like to know?” Hannibal settles himself on the bar stool beside his new acquaintance, amused by the feigned reluctance in the man’s acquiescence. He drinks from his glass, gaze unwavering as he shamelessly allows his tongue to dart out, following the flavor of the wine on his lips.

The man’s eyes linger on Hannibal’s mouth before flitting away, back to his own drink as color blooms, ever-so-slightly, high on his cheeks. “It’s usually polite to exchange names before room numbers,” he shrugs, sets his jaw, and adds, “or bodily fluids.”

“Interesting. Our encounter just a few moments ago led me to believe that you were not bound by the mores of polite society.”

“I’m…I apologize, for that.” He takes a gulp of his drink, eyes closing briefly, almost a wince, as he holds the liquor in his mouth for a beat before swallowing, sighing. Hannibal finds himself oddly warmed, bemused, by the sincerity of it, “I just really needed a drink.”

Thus signals a chink in his armor; for that’s what it appears to be - from his shabby appearance to his snapping tone to the frames of his glasses positioned deliberately _just so_ as to block eye contact - layers of protection from a disagreeable world. Perhaps not such a piggy after all. It’s almost a shame, Hannibal thinks; he does so enjoy playing with his food.

“Bad day at the office?” Hannibal enquires.

The man’s lips quirk into something resembling a smile, but it doesn’t manage to reach his eyes. “You could say that.”

Interest piqued by the obvious evasion, Hannibal presses, “And what does a day at the office entail?”

“I teach, mostly, but not today.” He says, almost through gritted teeth, and takes another sip of bourbon as Hannibal waits, patiently, for him to elaborate. “I sometimes dabble in…other areas,” he adds. It’s a conciliatory response; he does not wish to elaborate further, which drives Hannibal’s interest all the more.

“How illuminating,” Hannibal replies, teasingly. “May I ask in which other areas, or would you have to kill me if your secrets were revealed?”

He rolls his eyes and heaves an inflated sigh, the impudence from earlier returning, only with considerably more charm, this time. Hannibal lets the silence linger, grow faintly uncomfortable between them; a well-used technique. He’s pleased when the man bites his bottom lip, shakes his head and yields; an enticing taste of events that may yet come. “I used to be in law enforcement, I still consult on...special cases, sometimes”.

Hannibal stills at that, nerves thrumming with suddenly new possibilities. He thinks back to the tableau he had left behind that morning; the one that is responsible for this man's presence and disposition, the fresh peril he now reprasents. How curious the twists of fate that have brought them both here, together, in this moment. Meat may be back on the menu. _To market, to market_ …Hannibal muses. The higher the risk, after all, the more delicious the reward.

“Fascinating work,” Hannibal intones. He schools his features, maintains his cool exterior even while his pulse quickens delightfully. “You’ve been called upon to assist with the case of the politician who was killed, I presume?”

He nods, once, and his shoulders sag slightly.

“Nasty piece of work.” Hannibal states, referring, of course, to the man rather than the scene in question. The tableau he’d assembled had been a work of art to reflect the hypocrisy of the subject: he’d removed his heart (a souvenir; now packed in ice in cooler in Hannibal’s room), his genitalia (a step further than the chemical castration inflicted upon past converts), and delivered him in flames (to represent the fires of hell he’d used as a threat to those he deemed sinners) and on his knees to a statue of Jesus in what was, frankly, an act of mercy, so that he might seek forgiveness from his lord for his own misdeeds.

“You saw the pictures?”

“Indeed, it was quite the topic of conversation among delegates at the conference I attended earlier today.” Hannibal responds with a small shrug. “You must be quite talented to be tasked with such a feat,” He probes, intrigued by the new depths in this man that remain infuriatingly hidden to him; eager to expose them, carve them out and take them into himself, and yet…the idea of remaining so brazenly in plain sight is not without its appeal.

He doesn't answer that, just looks fleetingly at Hannibal, eyes dark, before correcting his posture and changing the subject. “I’m Will, by the way.”

“Will,” Hannibal repeats, his accent naturally drawing out the vowel sound as he takes a moment to consider his next move.

“I’m Han,” he says after a moment, and offers his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

He - _Will_ \- lets out an amused huff of breath but returns the handshake, calloused fingers pressing pleasingly against Hannibal’s palm. “Are you sure about that?”

“First impressions aside,” Hannibal adds.

The jibe has the desired effect on Will, who reacts with a reluctant quirk of his lips, expression softening. “What kind of Doctor are you, anyway?” 

“A very good one,” Hannibal replies with a smirk.

Will waits for a real answer by continuing to look in his direction, if not quite at him, expectantly.

“I’m a psychiatrist.”

“Fuck, I knew it.” he says with a groan, smile fading as he turns away to drain the last of the bourbon from his glass. “Just don’t psychoanalyze me. You won’t like me when I’m psychoanalyzed.”

“Duly noted,” Hannibal says, evenly; reassuringly.

“Listen,” Will says suddenly, turning in his seat to face Hannibal, visibly steeling himself with a breath. “I don’t do this.”

“And this is?”

“ _This_.” He gestures broadly with open palms. “Small talk, and...whatever else. I’m not very sociable.”

Hannibal lifts his wine glass and lets the stem balance between his fingers as he regards the man in front of him. He keeps his expression impassive as he wonders how he’ll taste, thoughts diverting, abruptly, to the idea of chasing the flavor of the bourbon on his tongue rather than sating his less conventional desires; craving consummation over consumption. He tilts his head and says, quietly, “One often meets their destiny on the path they seek to avoid.”

“Is that another line, Doctor?” Will asks, voice dropping to match Hannibal’s tone, the corner of his lips tugging upwards, threatening to betray his irascible facade. “Are you suggesting that you’re my destiny?”

 _I could be_ , Hannibal doesn’t say. He licks his lips instead, flagrantly flirtatious, and presses the wine glass to his mouth, lets it linger, enjoying the heat of hungry eyes there as much as the press of the cool glass, before taking a deep swallow.

The spark of attraction is evident; explicit, even. Will’s tongue darts out to wet his own lips; his Adam’s apple bobs deliciously in a mirror of Hannibal’s actions.

Hannibal sets the glass down on the bar and leans forward slowly, allowing his knee to briefly brush against that of his new-found companion, to feel his heat and make his intentions - at least, to a certain extent - clear. “May I?” He asks and raises his hand, pushes Will’s glasses up so that the frames serve their true purpose, outlining, rather than shielding, his eyes. “Not fond of eye contact, are you?”

“I find eyes distracting," Will blushes again, deeper this time, beautifully so; eyes shining with sudden vulnerability at odds with his previous posturing. "They reveal too much. I see more than I want to when I make eye contact.”

 _See me, Will._ Hannibal’s blood thrums at the thought; catches his eye for a thrilling fraction of a second. _I dare you._

“Well, if I cannot tempt you with pharmaceuticals, would you care to join me instead for another drink in my room?”

“Hmm,” Will murmurs, levity returning to his tone, eyes fixed on Hannibal’s mouth as his own lips curve downwards in a temporary, exaggerated frown, “I don’t know. You could be a serial killer, for all I know.”

“You would certainly seem qualified to make that call.” Hannibal replies with a baiting smile, unable to contain his mirth. “Although it is quite an unpalatable thought.”

“Well, my thoughts are often not tasty.”

“Nor mine. No effective barriers. We see too much in our fields of work.”

Will raises his eyes then, exhales a slow breath.“Tell me about it.”

“So,” Hannibal stands smoothly, last of his wine abandoned as he pulls enough from his billfold to cover both tabs, and a generous tip, and leaves the money on the bar. “Have you arrived at a verdict?”

“I guess I could still use something for my headache," Will laughs, a little self consciously, and rubs a rough hand through the curls at the base of his skull.

Hannibal grins. “I believe I know just the thing.”

  
  


 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After meeting in a hotel bar, Will goes back to the mysterious Dr. Han's room for 'something' to help with his headache. Introspection and sex ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, thank you so much to everyone who gave a fandom newbie a chance by reading, commenting & leaving kudos on the first chapter - flower crowns for you all!
> 
> Secondly, apologies for the delay in posting Chapter 2. Various things got in the way, as they tend to do, not least the ever growing word count and Will getting all angsty on me. 
> 
> The chapter comes from Will's POV this time, so I've stuck to referring to Hannibal as 'Han' as this is the name he - erring on the side of caution - gave Will in the last chapter. Sorry if it's little jarring. We'll be back to Hannibal/Dr. Lecter next time. 
> 
> Comments would be so, so much appreciated - I'd love to hear what you think!

The journey to the doctor’s hotel room is made in charged silence. Will concentrates on the dull throb in his head, his accelerated heart rate, as they ride in the elevator and he’s led through a tasteful, minimalistic hallway. He steels himself when a firm hand lands on the small of his back to guide him over the threshold, into an elegant suite (because of course, this guy has a suite) - all muted earth tones and soft light - and tries to relax, to mask the tension he feels at the purposeful touch, but it’s been so long since he’s even thought about letting his defenses down, since the desire for a warm body and practiced hands overrode his aversion to that kind of intimacy, that he feels skittish and unsure of his actions.

“Please, make yourself comfortable while I fetch us both drinks,” Han says.

Will feels anything but comfortable. He glances around the stylish-but-generic room before shoving his hands in his pockets and settling his gaze on Han’s back as the man consults the mini bar. His broad shoulders move fluidly beneath his tailored suit jacket, navy wool striped with a subtle burgundy thread, tapered at the waist. It probably cost more than Will’s entire wardrobe put together. He wonders what he was thinking even coming here; why this exotic, erudite stranger is even giving him the time of day.

Barely a week back in the field - at Jack Crawford’s insistence, his task of employing his ‘imagination’ to aid with the FBI hunt for the so-call Minnesota Shrike extended to this new case and any other grisly murder he’s deemed useful for - and already he’s being plagued by nightmares, by the intrusion of unwanted, oppressive thoughts; already the stress of it is leading him to make poor decisions, to drink too much, to pick up strange men in strange hotel bars (well, one man in one hotel bar) because it’s better - less dangerous, somehow - than spending another night alone with the monsters in his head.

 _Even if the strange man in question is a fucking psychiatrist,_ Will thinks and heaves a deep sigh as his mind flits to his past crush on one Dr. Alana Bloom. Another shrink. Maybe he wants to be probed and assessed, subconsciously; solved like a puzzle. God knows he can’t make sense of himself, most of the time.

“You will have to excuse the mess,” Han says with a glance over his shoulder as he efficiently lines up his chosen miniature bottles of liquor and two glass tumblers on a shiny oak desk, “your presence here this evening is an unexpected pleasure.”

“If you think this is messy I’m glad we didn’t go back to my place,” he replies, attempting levity as, diverted from his momentary introspection, he ambles towards a plush, suede loveseat (heading straight for the bed would surely be viewed as gauche, even for him). His hand hovers over the handle of a shiny blue-grey cooler that takes up most of the space on the seat, the only thing that comes close to mess in the otherwise pristine surroundings.

“Can I…?” Will asks, eyeing the box with a questioning look; the item seems curiously quaint, so ordinary as to be at odds with the man’s ultra-refined facade.

“Let me,” Han approaches Will with a smoldering look and hands him a fresh glass of bourbon in exchange for the cooler.

“Planning a picnic, Doctor?” Will scoffs as he sinks down onto the loveseat.

“I prepare most of my own food to eat when traveling. There is no telling the provenance of meat used in hotel restaurants,” he says by way of explanation as he disappears behind Will to store the box out of sight. “I’m very particular about what I put into my body.”

Will bites his tongue to stifle the crude joke that tries to escape in response to that revelation. “You like to be in control of what you eat,” he remarks aimlessly instead. It makes sense; he gets the impression that Doctor Han likes to be in precise command of everything in his life. He can’t say it isn’t part of his appeal.

The man re-appears and undoes the button of his immaculate jacket before slinking onto the sofa, thighs spreading and left arm draping languidly across the back as he settles close to Will. “Indeed.”

Will falters at the proximity, the sudden intimacy of it. The older man offers a small, enigmatic smile that makes his eyes crinkle; dark with secret promise. Will can’t quite name what he sees there, not yet, and the novelty of that alone unnerves him, scares him a little, but it excites him more. He becomes acutely aware of his pulse, beating rhythmically in time with the ceaseless pounding in his skull, and he aches for it to be replaced with another, more pleasurable, sensation.

“You look pensive, Will,” Han comments, head tilting in consideration.

His tongue darts out to wet dry lips. “I guess I’m just not entirely sure why I’m here.”

“No?” Han raises a skeptical brow.

“Well…” Will searches for the right thing to say to that, but anything that comes to mind would sound disingenuously coy or mockingly trite if voiced. He takes a reflexive gulp of his bourbon instead, still hoping the alcohol will smooth off some of his rougher edges.

“I find you interesting,” Han tells him, then pauses for a moment to trail his gaze down over Will’s body - there’s something casually predatory in it, animalistic in a way that makes Will’s skin prickle with anticipation - before adding, offhandedly, as if it’s a given, “And uncommonly attractive.”

At that, Will feels heat spread across his cheeks and crawl up to the tips of his ears. He attempts to laugh it off as another measure of undue flattery, but he can read people, can spot a lie only too well, and sees nothing in the man’s handsome face to betray his words. He can’t remember the last time someone looked at him with such naked desire. He can feel the echo of it; it’s undeniably seductive.

“Not fond of compliments, either,” Han notes, sipping on his drink, drawing Will’s gaze back to the elegant curve of his lips.

“I don’t hear many.”

“What an indefensible crime that is.”

Will can’t find a response to that, either; the praise dulled by the mention of the very word crime, as an unwanted flash of memory from earlier that day assails him with the cloying scent of burnt flesh and the feeling of self-disgust at not being _quite_ disgusted enough by the righteous humiliation of the charred remains of a hateful man, gored and gelded, the swing of the pendulum and the feeling that—

“Are you having second thoughts about being here, Will?”

“No,” he replies, a little too quickly, jarred from his wretched thoughts; he wants to be here. He’s tired of his only source of solace being found at the bottom of a liquor bottle.

He lets his eyes roam over the other man’s striking features to ground himself in the moment; high carved cheekbones, glowing almost bronze in the soft light, hair sleek and tidy and flecked golden-grey. Will feels the urge, suddenly, to mess it up, to dishevel his flawless clothes and see him moan and curse; to pull apart every put together inch. He blinks, looks away, stretches to rub a nervous hand over the sweat-damp hair at the nape of his neck. “Sorry, it’s just been a really long day and I—”

“And you’ve had enough small talk,” Han says coolly and sets his drink on the table beside them. Will still can’t place his accent. It sounds richer, thicker, now - appealingly so - in the comparative silence of the suite.

“Not to be so blunt about it,” Will says with a small abashed sigh. Han’s long fingers brush against his own as he reaches to take the glass from his hand, shifting in his seat to place it beside his own.

“I appreciate directness - if not discourtesy - and, as such, I will be direct about what I would prescribe for your headache, and whatever else may be troubling you, in this instance,” Han says smoothly, and with his subtle shift they’re all at once pressed even closer together, hip to knee. His tone remains cool even as his eyes rake hotly over Will’s face. “The rush of oxytocin experienced during sexual climax has analgesic and anxiolytic properties, effective in reducing the physical pain from migraine or cluster headaches, among countless other ailments,” he dips his head fractionally then inhales deeply, his eyes closing before he speaks again, the velvet rasp of his voice and the faint moisture from his breath against Will’s jaw threatening to make him quiver. “Will you allow me to bring you to orgasm, Will?”

Will almost feels like he should laugh at that, at the absurdity of it, but his breath just comes out ragged; he feels done for, dizzy with arousal as the course of his blood flow is diverted to his burgeoning erection. He wants, for once, to take refuge in the offer of lascivious pleasure for pleasure’s sake. He isn’t immune to his baser impulses, however much he usually tries to convince himself otherwise.

“Yes,” he nods and his hand twitches where it rests spread high on his own thigh, itching to reach out and take what’s being offered, but he doesn’t dare move yet. Han’s fathomless amber eyes have him pinned helplessly to the spot, unable to look away as the man waits for something more than just consent. “Please,” Will murmurs, shamelessly.

The older man pounces then, Will eager prey as soft lips find his own with bruising force, demanding hands cup his jaw and slide to tug harshly at his soft hair, steering the motion of their kiss. Will feels like he’s being devoured; a slick, searching tongue tastes him, teeth graze his tender lips, and he submits to the other man’s hunger, desperate to sate it and feast his own fill. He responds to every sure movement in kind, relishing in the fevered heat, the taste of him - bitter fruit and bourbon - as his own graceless hands scrabble over wide shoulders and planes of supple muscle, seeking more contact.

Han’s mouth trails down over his chin, teeth tug at the scruffy hair there and continue to nip and lick across the line of his jaw as keen fingers undo the buttons of his shirt, making contact with every freshly exposed inch of shivering skin. Will's cock is fully hard now, struggling against too many layers of fabric as he rocks his hips fruitlessly and pulls at the other man’s silk tie, attempts to tear the maddening layers of clothing away from his frame.

“Patience, Will,” he’s warned when the hand seeking Han’s belt is caught by the wrist and pushed gently away before he’s being pulled to his feet, craning his neck so as not to break the kiss. It’s been so long, he realizes, since he’s felt like this; since he’s had another human being so physically close, his body reacting to every touch in ways he’d forgotten it even could. He feels greedy for it, the sharp pangs of longing overtaking the dull pain in his head. Han casts Will’s jacket and open shirt roughly down over his shoulders and off, onto the floor, before gently removing his glasses. It’s that action that leaves Will feeling freshly exposed, more naked than he does deprived of his shirt. His mouth is reclaimed as the taller man guides him steadily back by stuttering hips until he’s pinned against the wall, the lush warmth and crushing friction against his erection making him moan wantonly into Han’s mouth.

“Wait,” Han commands, voice husky as he pushes his palm flat to Will’s bare chest, just center-left, where his heart hammers against his ribcage. Will clings to the other man’s flanks and draws him back for another desperate kiss, teeth tugging sharply at Han’s bottom lip before they separate again, and he’s gratified to feel the man’s breath catch at that, hips twitching indecently against him. Han brushes a thumb firmly across the small, stiff peak of Will’s nipple in response and looks at him with hooded eyes, tells him again, sternly, to _wait_ before pulling away. Although Will whines at the loss, he stays where he is, like one of his dogs would at the same command. He doesn’t dare disobey; the promise of what’s to come enough to make him behave.

The man disappears into the bathroom and Will concentrates on his breathing, on the hum of blood rushing in his ears. He only realizes that his eyes have fallen shut when he feels determined fingers begin working on his belt, undoing his fly; when he opens them again Han is on his knees in front of him, jacket and tie discarded and crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up. There is a small bottle of lube and a box of condoms beside him on the floor. “You came prepared,” Will taunts as he’s freed from his pants and underwear, chest heaving when his cock bobs obscenely, inches from the suggestion of Han’s luscious mouth, while teasing hands trace up the backs of his near-trembling thighs.

“He who is best prepared can best serve his moment of inspiration,” Han purrs, a smug smile quirking his lips as he stares ardently up at Will, wide hands smoothing upwards, over the curve of his ass.

“Coleridge,” Will identifies the quote with a huff of bemused breath. He’s grateful for the wall at his back, presses steadying hands against it to maintain his balance as he asks, “Is that what this is, Doctor? A moment of inspiration?”

“Certainly. I was struck by myriad inspirations at the very sight of you,” he says, smile widening, voice like brushed silk as it spills against the achingly sensitized head of Will’s cock before his tongue laps at the crystalline droplet of precome that has pooled there, dragging flat and slow across the slit as if to savor the taste.

“Oh, God,” Will whimpers as Han draws one hand back to encircle the base of his cock, angling it just so, as the other continues to massage his ass, grip tight enough to keep him in place. Han watches him, drinks in every ecstatic reaction as he licks a wet stripe up the underside of Will’s erection, tongues at the tip, suckles there, before swallowing his length down inch by teasing inch, until Will is engulfed by the effusive warmth of Han's mouth.

His head rolls back, eyes fall closed as he hurtles towards incoherence, losing himself to sensation when Han swallows, again and again, tight throat contracting deliciously around the head of his cock. He feels heat coil in his core, spreading until he’s on fire; suddenly consumed by a blaze of unchecked emotion as his thoughts flash, unbidden, back to the crime scene he’d spent most of the day attending - the body there, kneeling in supplication just like the man in front of him is now - and Will whines, pulls back, as a stab of nausea threatens his stomach. He forces his eyes open when he feels the blunt graze of teeth against his tender flesh - a warning, demanding his attention - and he reaches a hand out to tangle in Han’s hair, clutching to keep himself moored. His gaze on Will hasn’t wavered, still fearsome and fearless, gleaming above sharp cheekbones, so starkly beautiful against the hollows of his cheeks as he sucks harder, faster, and it works; brings Will back to him, into the present and out of his own mind.

“Please… _fuck_ , please….” Will hears himself moan while Han’s mouth works him tirelessly; hands roam to roll and tug at his sac, to stroke and still his convulsing hips, only to return to ring the base of his shaft, firm pressure there keeping his climax at bay. He feels his release in sight but still maddeningly out of his reach. Han’s every movement is artful and deliberate as he draws out Will’s pleasure. This isn’t an act of supplication, but of domination. He has Will utterly at his mercy, like this; not attempting to make him come as much as to make him suffer, exquisitely so, teasing him to the precipice only to deny him again and again, and with another broken, wanton cry Will realizes that what he’s pleading for isn’t release at all, but more of the same.

As if hearing his thoughts, Han draws back slowly and lets Will’s length slide from his mouth with an incongruously chaste parting kiss to the slick tip while a seeking finger traces backwards, short nail scraping gently across his perineum, causing Will’s breath to hitch as it breaches the cleft of his ass to press gently at his entrance. “Are you ready for more?” Han asks, the hot tickling sensation caused by his breath ghosting over damp, responsive skin all but guaranteeing his acquiescence as he cants his hips in silent response.

Han makes a quiet sound of approval at that and withdraws his hand from where it teases between Will's legs, raises it to his mouth and slides two fingers between his lips in a reproduction of the way he’d just taken Will’s cock into that same luscious space. Will finds himself captivated by the sight, unable and unwilling to look away until the man shifts suddenly, wrenching a small, shocked gasp from Will’s throat when swift hands grab and twist his hips, spinning him unceremoniously so that he's facing the wall, his own fingers fanning against the rough seagrass wallpaper there to steady himself.

There’s a soft slap between his thighs, encouraging him to part them wider, followed by the returning warmth of Han’s large palm covering his ass cheek, pulling to reveal his entrance before a spitty-wet fingertip rubs over his hole.  He strokes in small, exasperating circles before the motion is accompanied by the slightest scrape of stubble on his skin, gloriously at odds with the smooth slide of the softly probing tongue that follows.

Will raises his arms so that his elbows press flat against the abrasive surface of the wall and crosses his wrists in front of his face to form a pillow that he can rest his head against, to stifle the quiet obscenities pouring from his lips as Han eats his ass like it's ambrosia. He takes his time to explore Will there, to taste his skin and work his tongue inside, liquid warmth stretching him to the edge of his senses. Will feels both achingly vulnerable and powerful at the attention; the contradiction pulling him apart.

“Oh, _fuck_ …” he murmurs against his knuckles when a sudden whisper of cool air signals Han's retreat and a long, lubed finger replaces his tongue. Han rubs at his rim before working the digit all the way into him, excruciatingly slowly, causing Will’s body to tense, his stomach grow hollow as the muscles there clench at the intrusion.

“Do you enjoy being penetrated, Will?” Han asks with a pleasingly thick scratch to his voice.

“Hmm,” he hums as his hips buck of their own accord, his forsaken cock twitching, dripping, aching for the sweet, wet friction of before. Han ceases his movements but doesn’t withdraw, still buried inside him to the second knuckle as he waits patiently for the reply he wants. “Yeah, _yes_ , I do,” Will says breathily, attempting to relax as the finger picks up its slow, burning glide within him. “It’s just - _ah_ \- it’s just been a while.”

“Tell me, how long has it been?”

“Years.” The word spills out of Will’s mouth with a tight sigh of impatience. His jaw clenches. His last one night stand with a man, with anyone, had been in New Orleans after he’d left the force. He’d been in a different dark place then, one he’d rather not revisit; his newly discovered demons don’t need any more company.

“And why have you denied yourself for so long?”

“I… _seriously_?” Will grunts in frustration. Han responds by withdrawing his finger smoothly and pulling back from Will’s body. He doesn’t say anything else; there’s no further sound of movement. Another display of power, a reprimand for his petulance. All that lingers between them is electrified air, the scent of cologne and clean sweat, and the pleasure he’s holding to ransom. Will knows he’s gone too far to deny himself now. He’s resigned to the fact that it’s easier to expose his vulnerability to a stranger than someone he knows; there’s less to fear when there are fewer expectations. He can’t chase someone away if he doesn’t really have them in the first place. He tilts his head back, sighs again, and admits in a rush of breath, “It can be too much, okay? Like with eye contact. It’s something I can live without it, usually.”

“Usually,” Han rasps as his hands start a slow, tickling trail up Will’s thighs. “But not now.”

Will hates himself for the whimper he releases at the return of the man’s touch. “You said it yourself,” he answers, voice tremulous, “orgasms are good for relieving pain.”

“The pain in question - your headaches, your other torments - are a result of seeing too much through the prism of the work you do with the police, yes?”

“Yes,” he grits out in grudging acceptance as one warm hand winds around his hip, the other caressing the seam of his ass.

“You said you have unpalatable thoughts. I imagine what you see colors everything else in your mind. Your values and decency remain present but stained; you cannot control the associations you make, the dreams you have.”

Will can feel his heart flutter, a pulsating stab creeping back into his head, knitting his brow. If he felt exposed before, he feels wide open now; stripped in more ways than one. Defenceless against the truth of it. But maybe this is part of what he doesn't know he wants, even if he'll never fully admit it to himself; to be laid bare and seen - to see himself - through the eyes of someone else, someone other than a monster.

“Is it your thoughts that scare you more, Will, or the ease with which they come to you?”

Will snaps at that, even if his indignation at the psychiatrist’s intrusion into his psyche remains in stark contrast to the appeal of the intrusion into his body. He tenses, hips pitching forward as looks over his shoulder to see Han’s face, to better read his intentions. “Is this your idea of foreplay?”

“In part,” Han utters smoothly, eyes wide and face infuriatingly impassive as he allows his breath to ghost over the moist sheen of lube now smeared across Will’s ass, tone almost soothing. “It was you, after all, who suggested that we get to know each other. I simply hope to better understand how to give you what you need,” he pauses to press his lips tenderly to the hollow at the base of Will’s spine. “To help you find your way out of whichever dark place you find yourself in.”

“I…” he starts but bites back the rest of his response; cursing himself for even starting it. He turns back towards the wall, lets his forehead rest there as he exhales sharply. Will feels like his mind has spilled over, been glimpsed through cracked bone and flayed skin. Every nerve feels raw, yet he can’t resist the hands that dance across his skin as he arches his back, spreads his legs wider, still eager for more contact. He takes a deep, steadying breath. “It’s not my mind I want you to get inside of, Doctor.”

Mercifully, he relents at that, and Will’s sure he can feel a satisfied smile on the lips that press into his skin before there’s searing heat, his tongue there again, so insistent, followed by the press of two freshly lubed fingers. “Is this what you want from me, Will?”

“Yes. Fuck, _yes.”_  

Permission assured, Han plunges both fingers into him with purpose while his mouth applies suckling pressure to the plump curve of his ass, sharp teeth not quite piercing the thin veil of skin, sucking a fierce bruise there as he drives in deeper, stretches him wider.

Will groans at the sweet sting of it, arches helplessly when Han’s mouth applies more force to his tingling flesh while masterful fingers crook to find his prostate. Han’s jaw relents, tongue laving, lips lingering on their mark before pulling back with a smacking sound, all the while massaging the bundle of nerves inside him with conflicting, sedulous care. “Should I bring you to climax through prostate stimulation, Will?”

“No,” he practically snarls as he attempts to tilt his hips forward, edging away from the pressure, the prospect of coming - of ending this - too soon, and shudders violently when the motion causes the leaking head of his cock to graze against the textured surface of the wall, leaving a wet smear in its wake as his hips snap back towards the very sensation they were bucking to escape.

“No,” Han echoes, and Will can feel as well as hear the gravel in his voice as it dances over his hypersensitive skin. “What would you prefer instead?”

“Fuck, _you_ _know_ …” Will pleads, eyes screwed shut as he abandons the tattered remains of his reserve. “I want you to fuck me, I want…I want your cock.”

He hears a sound somewhere between a sigh and a growl at that and a hand snakes around his hip to take hold of his neglected erection. “Such language,” Han hisses, plainly triumphant while feigning displeasure as he withdraws slick fingers from Will’s body, causing him to clench and keen in their absence.

Will lets his head roll back when lips brush the tender bite mark on his ass one last time and then he feels the coarse glide of fabric over his skin, covering his back as Han rises and wraps a strong arm around his chest. He’s marched on trembling legs through the suite, his nape lavished with fervid, biting kisses on the way before he’s brought to a halt at the edge of the expansive bed. Will feels light-headed, knees threatening to buckle as the taller man nuzzles his sweat-damp hair and fists lazily at his length with one hand while the other trails up from his chest to the base of his throat. “Get onto the bed,” he orders and withdraws his touch.

Will complies; drops to his knees, crawls onto the crisp sheets and flips himself over to lie back on the large, downy pillows. He basks in the sight of the man in front of him; neat hair wrecked, lips shiny-wet and slightly swollen from tasting him, the fabric of his pants  pulled enticingly tight over the hard length of his straining erection. Despite it all, Han maintains a maddening air of composure as he stands there, chest rising and falling steadily, black eyes raking wolfishly over Will’s splayed, naked body. Will feels overcome by a shard of that same lupine desire.

“Get undressed,” Will barks, licking his lips and spreading his thighs wider. He feels torn by the waves of competing need washing over him; he wants desperately to both possess and be possessed by this man, to take and be taken.

Han’s eyes narrow at the command, though he does as Will bids, slowly unfastens each pearly button on his shirt to reveal a thatch of peppery-dark hair across a broad, toned chest. His pants and underwear follow, sliding over slim hips and lightly muscled thighs, infuriatingly fastidious until he’s naked at last and his cock - uncut, flushed and full - arches towards his belly.

Will swallows, mouth watering at the display. Emboldened, he reaches between his legs to stroke himself - gently pulling at his shaft, teasing the head with his thumb - equally hungry hands itching for the contact he’s being denied. “You promised me an orgasm.”

“I did,” the older man says and bends, provocatively exhibiting his taut ass, to retrieve the discarded lube and condoms from the floor before prowling towards the bed. “And I always keep my promises.”

Will’s thighs are soon parted, hoisted up around Han’s waist by strong, searching hands as he’s kissed with fervor, willing mouth surrendering to the sweep of Han’s zealous tongue and the forbidden taste of himself there. His hands rake through the hair on the other man’s chest, the fine sheen of sweat there, before seizing his cock, eager for the smooth, scorching hardness of it, and pressing it firmly against his own, crying out as he strokes them both in earnest.

Han presses into him, grinds their hips together, as he tilts Will’s chin up to expose his neck. He nips at the skin over Will’s fluttering pulse, mouths over the knot of his Adam’s apple, and Will feels a thrill at the threat of teeth there - so frail, so easily broken, under sharp incisors - the contradictory pangs of fear and arousal causing him to rut against the other man while his throat convulses and his hands tangle tightly in satiny hair, warring with the competing desires to pull him closer and push him away.

When Han draws back, he looks faintly savage; teeth bared as he tears open a condom wrapper, black pupils ringed with fiery amber. Will feels a spark of something; not recognition, exactly, but a vague awareness, and a whisper of menace. He feels overcome by the fray and tangle of his emotional wires; reflections from Han combining with the horde of other horrors in his head before he’s lost in the fugue, consumed by a need that’s not his own.

His hands claw at Han’s biceps, fingers flexing as he rears up abruptly and flips their positions. Will crawls over him to straddle lean thighs, using the full force of his weight to grasp fiercely at the larger man's wrists, pinning them under protest at either side of his head before capturing his mouth with so much force as to seem feral; stealing each labored breath, teeth clashing and drawing blood from tender lips. Hot whips of _want_ lash at his skin; he wants to own this beautiful man beneath him, wants to trace the delicate structure of his skull, peer into his depths, to know and see and taste every inch of him, inside and out; he wants to hear him mewl and moan with pain and pleasure, both, and beg for merciful release.

When he pulls back for breath, Han has stopped struggling against him, carefully watching Will’s face before the fight falls away and muscles yield beneath him, the man’s lips twitch towards a cunning, breathless smile.

“I am willing to relinquish control to you Will, if it is what you want.”

“It’s not,” he practically grunts, discomfited by his own assertion. His fingers flex and tighten on the other man’s wrists and his face crumples into a frown, eyes scrunching shut. He isn’t sure what secret, surrogate wants he’s given voice to; which thoughts have spilled out of him in words as well as actions. “It’s what _you_ want. It's…I can _feel_ it. It comes off of you in waves.”

“Such is your empathy,” he says plainly, as if the revelation is entirely normal.

Will swallows thickly and loosens his grip on Han’s wrists. He opens his eyes but doesn't look at the man under him when he says, resentfully. “My imagination is...vivid.”

“Have you been diagnosed with hyper-empathy disorder?”

His jaw tightens, teeth clenching almost painfully as he bites his tongue. _Fucking_ _psychiatrists_ , Will thinks. He nods and shifts his hips back in retreat, arousal dampened by discomfort.

“To perceive is to suffer,” Han says, almost dreamily, and reaches a hand up to cup Will's face, stopping him from recoiling further. Will’s surprised to find the other man’s eyes still eager, almost fond, as he gazes up at him, stroking a thumb across his cheek and then lower, over his lips. “What a glorious puzzle you are.”

Will feels twin surges of relief and shame mixing with the same jarring, unending hunger as before. He needs this, just for one night. It doesn’t really matter if this obliging stranger catches a glimpse of his various peccadillos and peculiarities, does it? It’s not like he’ll ever have to see him again.

He rolls his hips slowly, tentatively, seeking the same reaction as before, and darts his tongue out to taste the salty pad of Han’s thumb, still pressed to his bottom lip.

“You look both fierce and frightened, Will,” he says and moves his hands down to trace over Will’s ribs, to his waist, adjusting so that his sheathed cock slides into the crease of Will's ass. “Which is it to be?”

“I’m not frightened,” Will says, resolute even as his voice quivers at the lie. He’s always frightened - fear has been one of the few constants in his life for as long as he can remember, whether finding ways to flee from it or face it - but if he’s doing this tonight, or at all, he thinks, _this_ is who he should be doing it with; someone strong enough to hold the pieces of him together if he threatens to break apart again. His eyes flutter as he winds his fingers into the thick hair on Han’s chest before pressing his palms flat to take his weight as he raises his hips.

  
“Good,” Han purrs and sits up to draw Will back into another torrid kiss, agile fingers slick, pressing cool and firm into him with ease, “because I still have a promise to keep.”

His fingers are soon replaced with the blunt head of his cock, the breach causing Will to unleash a strangled, yearning sob as his hole clenches in time with his fists as they seek purchase on the tensing muscles of Han’s back. He feeds his cock slowly, torturously, into Will’s tight body; stroking him, steering the descent of his hips until the sweet burn ceases and Will is so full that there’s no room left for the shadows that lurk in his empty spaces.

Han rolls them then, towers above Will and shoves his knees up, bends him double as he holds him fast and fucks him hard. It’s as brutal as it is blissful; Han sinks ever deeper, covers him with biting kisses as propitious hands wring every drop of pain-tinged pleasure from him until he can’t think, can’t speak beyond the panting, plaintive sounds that pour out of him.

“I’m…oh fuck - Han, _please_ \- I’m close...I’m going to…” Will babbles, eyes tight shut against the onslaught of sensation when waves of electric pleasure build and ripple through him, inwards and upwards through his solar plexus, extending shocks from his curling toes to the twitching tips of his fingers.

“Yes,” Han pants as he allows Will’s weary thighs to drop and curl around his waist before reaching up to cup Will’s nape in a firm but tender grip, his other hand pulling Will’s cock at a frenetic pace, countering every shuddering thrust. “Look at me, Will," he commands, "look at me and let go.”

Will does, finds that in the moment he wants to see, to be seen, as he opens his eyes and arches his back and pistons his hips, wailing indecipherably as he catches sight of the man above him - equanimity compromised at last as he growls, jaw clenching around bared teeth - and Will can _feel_ the wildness he sees there and it pushes him - both of them - over the edge. Will's orgasm draws him into a tensile line as he feels Han’s limbs grow taut, the man’s lithe body quaking around him - inside him - and his ragged fingernails bite into the flexing muscle of Han’s ass before he’s spilling over Han’s fist, sordid stripes of come arcing and clinging to the hair on his chest while the man’s hold on Will tightens, the thumb against his cheekbone clings with a desperate, bruising pressure, as though it could crush him and the trembling, aching thing he’s become.

For a glorious moment, nothing else in the world exists; just a singular sensate mess, the salacious sound of slapping skin and heavy, clamoring breath, before it ends with one final, punishing thrust, and Will feels the light dip and fade around him.

There’s weight after that, heavy and boneless, before the edges of Will’s vision regain color and acuity. His legs grow limp when Han starts to slide out of him, petting at Will's face when his body reacts, attempts to hold him there for a fraction longer. He presses a wet, lingering kiss to Will's slack mouth before he rolls off, over onto his back.

Will closes his eyes. The air hangs heavy around them, filled with the sounds of slowing breath and the musky scent of spent sex. Will listens to Han move, the sound of his footsteps retreating. For once, he doesn't say anything. _Time to go_ , Will thinks, and sighs as he turns onto his side, allowing himself one moment more for his legs to stop shaking and his mind to start working, before he gets up.

The bed dips behind him, and he flinches at the sudden touch to his shoulder, makes to reassure the man that _okay_ , he’s just about to leave before he’s pulled to lay on his back again and a warm washcloth is pressed to his belly, removing the sticky-wet remains of sex and sweat from his skin. “I can…uh, you don’t have to—”

“I’m well aware,” Han cuts him off, hand stilling below his navel, gazing at him with something like amusement as Will attempts to hoist himself up on his elbows. Will notices that he’s cleaned himself off, combed his hair back into place. His mask replaced, in part.  “But I will anyway, if you’ll allow me.”

It isn’t phrased as a question so Will doesn't answer, just lies back and, with his eyes closed again, lets Han rub the washcloth over his stomach, through the hair at his groin and between his legs, around his throbbing, sensitized rim. He feels slightly shamefaced, shy under such scrutiny, even after everything they’ve just done.

”Would you deem my treatment effective, Will?”

His breath comes out hard as he laughs. The pain in his head all but gone, for now; a benefit from the rush of endorphins, as prescribed. He opens his eyes and schools his features. “I think I’ll live, Doctor.”

“That you will,” Han says with a flicker of a smile as he runs a hand through the curls at Will’s temple before withdrawing the cloth, disposing of it, and lying down close beside him.

“I should get back...” Will says after a long moment of silence, moving away as  self-consciousness prickles his skin, like gooseflesh.

“Stay," Han says; a straightforward command, like the others he's given Will tonight, and places a hand on his forearm, drawing his gaze. "Sleep here. Join me for breakfast in the morning.”

Will doesn't answer, but he doesn't leave, either. Instead, he lies back down on the bed and blinks into the darkness when Han turns out the light.

  
He can't deny that the idea of sharing a bed - of waking up to a warm body, soothing words after inevitable nightmares, lazy morning sex, breakfast together - is nice. _Too_ nice. A fantasy he won’t afford himself. Instead, he focuses on the sound of Han’s steady breath and waits until it deepens, evens out with sleep, to do what he always does and run away before he gets too awkward, before he has something for just long enough to miss it when it's gone.

He pushes himself up into a sitting position and, biting back a hiss of pain from the forgotten bruise he can feel blooming on his ass, runs a hand through his messy hair. He feels sore and stretched, but sated, and it takes the edge off of his impending sense of dread and the distant thud already gaining rhythm in the back of his skull.

Will stands and doesn't look back, afraid to wake the man with the weight of his eyes alone. He doesn't want to hear that velvety voice again, sleep-rough, asking him to stay (or worse, not asking, this time). Quietly, he collects his clothes from their various scattered spots throughout the room and dresses by the door before slinking out of the suite and into the elevator, back to his third floor single economy room and back to reality, whatever fresh horrors it might bring. 

   


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morsels of memory Hannibal finds himself dining on serve only to arouse his appetite for a repetition of his hotel encounter with Will; to see him reprimanded for absconding, to further plumb the fascinating depths of the man, both body and mind. And Hannibal is nothing if not accustomed to finding what he seeks, inclined as he is to use whatever means necessary to do so.

 

“Cheese is my passion,” Franklyn says, expression brightening, eyes still bloodshot from the tears he’d shed earlier in the session.

Hannibal glares disapprovingly at the crumpled, soiled paper tissue his patient has just  carelessly disposed of on the glass surface of the antique side table beside his chair before letting his gaze fall back to the notebook in his lap, the gaping blank page that today’s appointment has inspired. None of his recent conversations with this particular patient have approached the kind of therapeutic breakthrough he had hoped for and Hannibal’s attention is rapidly waning. He suppresses a sigh. In fairness to Mr. Froideveaux, he finds himself somewhat more distracted today than usual, unable - unwilling - to stop his subconscious from straying to thoughts of the previous evening’s hotel encounter with the oddly enchanting Will.

It is rare for Hannibal to stumble upon someone who captures his interest so thoroughly. Despite the fact that he had been displeased to find his bed cold and empty of company in the hours following their tryst - rare-offered invitation to stay rebuffed as he slept - the discourtesy of the desertion had not irked him to such an extent that it was detracting from the delicious, still-fresh memory of their brief time together, nor was it sufficient to deter him from recalling each carefully catalogued detail: the liquid fire, smokey-sweet bourbon taste of his mouth, the umami flavour of his skin, salty with sweat; the heavy, heady scent of his arousal, so much more enticing than his lamentable cologne; his callus-rough hands, the way they clung to him so savagely, at odds with the velveteen skin of his spread thighs, his supple backside; the moreish sound of him in ecstasy, fevered pleading and cursing that was a symphony of obscenity to Hannibal’s ears and - his favourite detail - how Will had looked towering above him; dark curls and coiling muscle, those solace-seeking eyes, as stunning in dismay as in desire, at war with his own nature and so utterly, entrancingly resentful of his gift.

Hannibal allows his eyes to close for a brief second as he inhales, exhales slowly, and lingers on just how sublimely the man had managed to engage all of his senses.

“...and I know it’s not the healthiest thing I could eat,” Franklyn continues, heedless of interrupting Hannibal’s increasingly lascivious thoughts, “but when I feel anxious - and I do, all the time lately - it’s the only thing that seems to help, besides seeing you, of course, but that’s only once every week.”

Hannibal chooses to ignore this thinly-veiled request for additional time and attention. “We are often drawn to things that are bad for us,” he says simply. And while especially true of this particular patient, it is a flaw from which even Hannibal himself is not exempt. He crosses his legs, glances at his watch. It may indeed be time to rid himself of Mr. Friodeveux (although referral to another psychiatrist could prove difficult; his tendency towards transference leaving few in Baltimore he’s yet to see), to afford Hannibal the additional time he needs to explore his own ancillary passions. In all, the morsels of memory that he had been dining on all day were serving only to arouse his appetite for a repetition of the encounter with Will - cementing his desire to see him reprimanded for absconding, to further plumb the fascinating depths of the man, both body and mind - and Hannibal is nothing if not accustomed to finding what he seeks, inclined as he is to use whatever means necessary to do so.

“Do you enjoy cheese, Doctor Lecter?” Franklyn asks, edging forward in his seat, stubby fingers fidgeting with a button on his tailored - but too-tight - jacket.

“I do,” Hannibal says and extends a flat smile to Franklyn, grateful that his hour is almost up. “And I firmly believe that we should allow ourselves to indulge in the things that please us most.”

Franklin’s eyes widen with anodyne hope. “Even if those things aren’t necessarily good for us?”

“Everything in moderation, of course,” Hannibal adds and closes his notebook. “The key lies in exercising control.”

 

*****

 

His last patient of the day attended to, Hannibal removes his jacket and rolls his shoulders. He can still feel the ghost of blunt fingernails there, clawing wantonly at his skin, as he pours himself a glass of cold, crisp Viognier to cleanse his palate and settles at his desk with his tablet computer.

Armed with the knowledge that the Will he met was in the city to assist police with the case of the politician's timely death, Hannibal starts his search for information on that case and, more specifically, for any details about the team handling it.

Hannibal clicks on an article from the reliably lurid TattleCrime site - ‘ _Heartless_ _Anti_ - _LGBTQ_ _Congressman_ _Murdered_ _Amidst_ _Rumors_ _of_ _Misconduct_ \- _FBI_ _Investigates_ ’ - and scrolls through the accompanying collection of dimly-lit photographs (undoubtedly taken without consent, camera flash switched off to avoid discovery at the scene), which reveal, to his disappointment, nothing besides a standard crime scene tent, some police tape and evidence markers. He scans the body of the article which comprises little more than pandering fluff and wild conjecture - and to his satisfaction, no real insight, no mention yet of the Chesapeake Ripper or another likely suspect - until there at the end, he finds the name that he had wished to see - ‘ _FBI_ _Agents_ _Jack_ _Crawford_ _and_ _Will_ _Graham_ _attended_ _the_ _scene_ _but_ _declined_ _to_ _comment_.’

With the addition of Will’s probable last name, a little further online research soon reveals that the man Hannibal had spent the evening getting to know (in the biblical sense, at least) indeed appears to have been FBI Special Agent Will Graham who - as a respected teacher at the Quantico FBI Academy specializing in forensics and criminal profiling, former homicide detective and forensics analyst, and author of a highly regarded monograph on determining time of death by insect activity - had rather downplayed both his law enforcement and academic credentials during their initial conversation.

He powers off the device and reclines in his seat, savors the notes of peach and honey that the wine leaves on his tongue. This newly discovered information pleases Hannibal enormously. Not only because the depth of the fierce intelligence he had glimpsed in Will Graham serves only to galvanize his interest, but because, as fate would have it, he currently has another connection to Quantico - Dr. Alana Bloom, a former mentee from his time at Johns Hopkins and whip-smart psychology professor who is presently guest lecturing at the FBI Academy away from her resident position at Georgetown - and she happens to be long overdue for an invitation to dinner.

 

*****

 

“Heart stuffed with foraged mushrooms, wild garlic and baby spinach, then roasted,” _like_ _the_ _rest_ _of_ _its_ _owner_ , Hannibal thinks with a smile, but reserves this particular bon mot for himself - “and served with pan jus and Pomme Anna.”

Alana wrinkles her nose at him in jest. “Still doing the nose-to-tail thing, huh?”

“Naturally,” he says, and tops up her tall beer glass with a home-brewed ruby ale, hopeful that the libation might help loosen her tongue, “anything else would be a terrible waste.”

“It looks incredible, as always,” Alana says, smoothing her napkin across her lap, “I don’t think I’ve ever eaten a heart before.”

“But you’ve broken more than a few, I suspect."

She rolls her eyes at him and tucks a strand of long, dark hair behind her ear. “Well, I wouldn’t dare eat this anywhere else, but I trust your superior skill and judgment when it comes to the culinary arts.”

“As you should.” Hannibal raises his wine glass towards her, “Bon Appetit.”

They eat and share meandering chit-chat. Hannibal steers the conversation towards work with some well-placed, well-meaning questions about her semester at the FBI Academy; the attitude of trainees, the oft grim subject matter and, of course, the faculty.

Although he always enjoys Alana’s company, his primary intention this evening is to find out if - and how well - she knows Will Graham; to soak up any droplets of information she might spill that will allow him to plant a seed, to somehow get close enough to manufacture a second, chance meeting with the man who has so preoccupied his thoughts since their time together. (And, if this approach should fail, he finds himself quite willing to sacrifice a patient if it might mean securing a visit from Special Agent Will Graham. To this end, he had delayed his plan to refer Franklyn Friodeveaux to another psychiatrist; he may yet prove useful as a patient.)

“Everyone’s nice, of course, but the culture, the atmosphere, is entirely different from Georgetown.”

Hannibal quirks a brow, stills his fork as it spears the meat on his plate. “How so?”

“Oh, you know, students carrying guns, that kind of thing,” she says with a sardonic smile and a small shrug, “But mainly it’s just a different workload, a different level of intensity. And I’m covering some extra classes while the regular teacher does other work for the Bureau.”

“They aim to get their money’s worth during your tenure,” Hannibal jokes, before pressing, “How are you adapting to these new classes?”

“They’re good,” she says, inflection lilting upwards as though she isn’t quite convinced of that, questioning her own assertion. “Honestly, I think I’m learning as much as the trainees just by reading the course notes.”

“Complicated material?”

“It’s more that Will has a very specific way of thinking about things.”

Hannibal feels his stomach clench. He lets his gaze flit from his plate to Alana and asks casually, “Will?”

“Will Graham - the instructor I’m covering classes for,” she pauses to sip her beer, then smiles fondly, “It’s good to tackle something a little different, approach things from a new perspective. Keeps me on my toes.”

At the confirmation of what he suspected - _hoped_ \- might be the case of Alana and Will’s acquaintance, Hannibal is careful to maintain a cool countenance; his query only that of polite, passive interest. “How does this teacher’s perspective differ from your own?”

“He tends to put himself into the work, rather than maintaining an academic distance. It can be…vivid in detail. He sees things most would miss, or actively avoid.” There’s a contemplative pause before she continues, halting the movement of her knife before it slices through the blushing, tender piece of heart on her plate. “He’s great at what he does, he just does it differently than I would.”

“You and I have often found ourselves at odds over differing methodologies, yet we still hold each other in high esteem.”

“Exactly.”

Hannibal watches Alana’s expression carefully. “And are you and this Will Graham also as friendly as we are?”

She purses her lips, tilts her head. “We’re friends, of sorts.”

“Of sorts?” He raises a brow at her and allows his lips to stretch towards a small smile despite feeling something dark and disquieting stir low in his stomach.

“It’s not like that,” she chides and settles her knife and fork delicately across her plate to indicate that she has finished eating.

“No?”

“No,” she says firmly.

Hannibal notes with umbrage that the implication has brought a faint blush to her cheeks. “And do you socialize with this friend, of sorts?”

“Nope. Never been in a room alone with him.”

“And why is that?” He narrows his eyes, grips his wine glass, and forces himself to remain amiable.

She shakes her head at his prying and balls her napkin in her hand, sets it on the table beside her plate. “Anyway,” she says, and her expression shifts, grows serious, “that actually brings me to something I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Yes?”

“I had been planning on getting in touch before you called,” she places her elbows on the table and leans forward - Hannibal finds himself too motivated to hear what she has to tell him to delay it by reprimanding her for a lack of table etiquette - and continues, “I shouldn’t say too much in case you aren’t interested, but the head of the Behavioural Science Unit is looking for a clinical psychiatrist to assist with a profile.”

Hannibal feels a terse thrill at the very notion of assisting the FBI. He had made every effort to avoid direct contact with them until now - a similar invitation had been extended in the past and he had declined, with the excuse of an already sizeable workload; no sense in tempting fate, he’d thought then, by putting himself in the sights of the same people who had branded his other _specialist_ work as ‘evil’ and ‘monstrous’ - however he finds that his opinion on that matter may well have altered. He lets the iron-rich flavor of the last bite of meat rest on his tongue before slowly chewing, swallowing, keen to keep his new-found eagerness under wraps for fear of arousing Alana’s suspicion by acquiescing too readily. “I’m sure the FBI’s Behaviour Science Unit is well equipped for that task. Present company included.”

“It’s….delicate. There’s a member of staff, a teacher, who is currently consulting on cases,” she says, there being the obvious implication that she is still speaking of Will Graham without saying so explicitly, “I have voiced my concerns that, while more than capable, he needs additional support, certainly a formal psych eval, before getting any deeper into fieldwork.”

“And you feel you may be too close to conduct an unbiased evaluation?”

“I don’t want to lose a friendship that was already hard to win, or ruffle the establishment feathers with my opinions on how it’s being handled. An outsider’s opinion would be useful.”

“You don’t want to upset the applecart.” Alana knows Hannibal well enough to understand that he has no such qualms in that regard.

She nods. “I think you’d be a good fit.”

Hannibal is inclined to agree, but conceals his enthusiasm. “The teacher in question is unreceptive to the idea?”

“Very much so. He’s neuroatypical. He failed initial screening to be a fully-fledged FBI Agent and I think he’s sensitive about it. He’s great at what he does. Brilliant even, but that kind of work can take a toll on someone who is already….” she pauses, attempts to choose her next word carefully, “unpredictable.”

Hannibal tempers his expression, dons a mask of quiet consideration to hide the warm sense of delight he feels pooling in his chest. Although not quite what he had envisaged, the idea of working alongside Will was undeniably exhilarating. Will had glimpsed a certain darkness in Hannibal, he’s sure of that, and the idea of concealing the depth of that darkness under such a perceptive gaze whilst exploring, pushing the boundaries of, Will’s response to it was too enticing to resist. He has always found it difficult to resist a challenge.

“That screening test detects psychological instability,” he comments; it’s not quite a question.

She nods, takes a long pull of her beer, and smiles, “I think you’d be an asset to the BSU, and you could assist with profiling. There’s a case in Minnesota you could undoubtedly help with; missing girls, seven so far, as well as keeping an eye on W—” she abruptly sucks her lips in, as though trying to claw back that last, telling syllable, before continuing with a slight grimace, “the Agent in question.”

Hannibal keeps his smile small, even, at her near-slip as everything clicks into place more neatly than he had dared to hope possible; puppets dancing as if he had hoisted the strings and pulled each into perfect alignment to suit his own ends. He finds himself quite responsive to the idea overall, not just the enticement of gaining legitimate access to Will Graham, but of peeking behind the curtain of the FBI, gaining insight and cultivating influence over such compelling minds. After all, where better for a tree to conceal itself than in a forest?

He makes a show of giving the idea careful consideration. “I would be amenable to discussing it further if you wish to pass my details to your colleague.”

“Good,” she says and reaches across the table to touch his hand. “I will. Thank you, Hannibal.”

 _No_ , _thank_ _you_   _Alana_ , he wants to say, but keeps it to himself.

 

****

 

Dressed comparatively more casually than he normally would for such an occasion - no tie, a simple sweater over an open-collared shirt, an informal blazer - and wearing day old stubble in order to cultivate an atypical air of approachability, Hannibal pulls his Bentley into the lot of the Behavioural Science Unit building at Quantico, prompt  for his scheduled meeting. 

Within a week of his conversation with Alana, he had received a visitor to his practice in the form of Special Agent Jack Crawford, Head of the FBI Behavioural Science Unit, requesting his assistance in constructing the psychological profile of the criminal Alana had mentioned - now responsible for eight missing girls (presumed dead), all abducted from college campuses across Minnesota - as well as help to informally evaluate and monitor a gifted, but somewhat difficult, Agent who had only recently returned to field work.

Hannibal had found Jack to be surprisingly amiable; the man had obviously conducted a background check on him, and had been briefed on his academic bona fides by Alana prior to his visit, but, even so, Hannibal had been impressed that he had taken the time to memorize and reference some of the finer details of his academic past, to compliment the sketches in his office, the paper he’d had published in the Clinical Journal of Psychiatry. Men like Jack Crawford often favored bullishness over good manners to achieve their desired results; Hannibal appreciated the courtesy of his stratagem, even if it had only been dispatched in order to serve his own interests.

Willingness to assist assured, Jack furnished him with additional information about the specific skill set of the Agent he was tasked to work with (which Hannibal, unbeknownst to Jack, already had intimate, albeit slender, knowledge of) and had made it clear, and in no uncertain terms, that while the Special Agent may need to be treated with kid gloves, it was of the utmost importance that he remain able to work on this, and other, cases.

“ _I_ _need_ _him_ _out_ _there_ , _and_ _I_ _need_ _you_ _to_ _make_ _sure_ _that_ _when_ _he_ _goes_ _deep_ _he_ _can_ _find_ _his_ _way_ _back_ _to_ _the_ _surface_ ,” Jack had stated.

“ _To_ _act_ _as_ _a_ _life_ _preserver_ _should_ _he_ _go_ _adrift_.”

“ _Precisely_.”

And so, to Hannibal’s illicit pleasure, it was agreed that he would rejig the rest of the week’s appointments in order to start his consultation work as soon as was possible, bringing him neatly to this moment, the fruit of recent labors and his divine good fortune; his formal introduction to Special Agent Will Graham.

He feels a frisson of excitement in anticipation of the seeing Will again; the displeased expression he can already envisage on that lovely face. He wonders how long it will take for Will’s eyes to meet his own and if a blush will bloom on his cheeks as prettily as it had before; if the bruise he left on his skin will still be faintly present, if it remains tender under his weight when he sits. He wonders how long it will take to be granted a taste of him again, the musky sweetness that he cannot help but crave. Though stored and revisited many times since that night, it has become as the perusal of a menu would be to a starving man; tantalizing but ultimately unfulfilling.

When he arrives at Jack Crawford’s office, the door is ajar and Hannibal catches the scent of Will’s cologne - the same soapy, citrus-musk as worn previously, too juvenile and inexpensive for his tastes, but made slightly more agreeable by recent association - before he comes into view. Even in profile, Will remains every bit as visually captivating as Hannibal recalls. He is sitting opposite Jack, a desk between them, and when Hannibal politely knocks on the open door to signal his arrival Will doesn’t turn around to look or stand to greet him but continues to frown at the papers in his hand.

“Doctor Lecter, we’re grateful to have you on board,” Jack stands and circles his desk, shakes Hannibal’s hand and claps him on the shoulder with the other, smiling broadly.

Hannibal’s eyes flit to the still seated, uninterested Will before he speaks. He is as he had been before; unshaven, bespectacled and altogether unkempt, shoulders bowed as he broods over his work. Hannibal returns Jack’s grin, “I am delighted to offer help in any way that I can.”

Will’s hands go still and his posture shifts at the sound of Hannibal’s unmistakable voice. His jaw clenches before his head tilts to peer over the same thick-rimmed glasses as before, perched low on his nose.

“This is Special Agent Will Graham, a teacher at the Academy who is also assisting with the Minnesota killer’s profile,” Jack gestures to Will and frowns slightly when he sees him barely looking up, “Will, this is Doctor Hannibal Lecter, a forensic psychiatrist who came highly recommend by Alana Bloom.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Will,” Hannibal says evenly, careful to manufacture a small measure of surprise while concealing the level of glee he feels at the sight of the bristling man before him.

Unsurprisingly, Will does not return the sentiment, instead, he runs his eyes quickly over Hannibal’s face, full lips pulled into a tight line of disapproval, before turning back to Jack and requesting the confession file. Every bit as discomfited and discourteous as Hannibal had expected him to be. He has to suppress the smile tickling the corners of his lips, prompted by his own reaction as much as Will’s; he wouldn’t tolerate such disrespect from anyone else, a sure sign of his uncommon appreciation for the man.

Jack throws Hannibal a small apologetic smile at Will’s lack of manners and leads him towards the evidence board, perches on the edge of his desk as he briefs him on the known victims, pertinent locations, the spate of false confessions following the latest TattleCrime photos of the most recent victim’s body - Elise Nichols, who had been sewn up and returned to her bed post-mortem.

“And yet none of the other bodies have been found, even in part?”

“He’s eating them,” Will says bluntly before Jack can respond, the first words he’s spoken since Hannibal’s arrival. Will glances up at at him from his seat.

Hannibal hums in consideration, buries his hands in his pockets and turns to peruse the photographs of the victims on the board. “Homo homini lupus,” he murmurs, quietly.

Will huffs out a sour burst of laughter, “That’s one way to put it.”

Hannibal is impressed by Will’s quick translation of the latin phrase - a personal favorite: _man_ _is_ _wolf_ _to_ _man_ \- a linguistic skill possessed by too few in his opinion; another point in Will’s favor. Hannibal turns back towards him, “How would you put it?”

“He’s a cannibal with the ethics of a game hunter.”

Hannibal nods. “For him, the tragedy is not the death itself, but for that death to be wasted.” It is a concept that he - unbeknownst to all but the few who have lived to experience it first hand - understands intimately.

“He wants to honor every part of his kill, that’s why he returned Elise Nichols. She had liver cancer. The meat was spoilt, he couldn’t honor her,” Will says, and seems to catch himself looking at Hannibal for too long, too comfortably. His eyes dart away, and he bows his head, squints his eyes at the file in his lap before finishing the thought, “Grotesque, but practical.”

“Is that how you view your own methods, Will? Grotesque, but practical?”

When he doesn’t answer, Hannibal can’t resist continuing, hopeful of provoking a further reaction. He moves swiftly, takes the seat beside him.

“I imagine it takes a toll on you, emotionally, to reconstruct the thoughts, the fantasies, of such a monster.”

Will blinks, a dark flash of betrayal there before his eyes flit briefly to Jack then return to his work. He remains silent, jaw set. Hannibal is conscious of the part of the conversation that is taking part between their words, loaded with what little knowledge of each other they secretly share.

“Tell me, Will,” Hannibal lets his voice soften, leans a little closer, “what mechanisms do you employ to preserve your own values and sense of decency under such dark influences?”

Will’s fist curls in his lap, he lifts his chin, “I build forts.”

“No forts, though, in the bone arena of your skull to protect the things you love.”

“Whose profile are you working on?” He snaps, before turning to Jack, the volume of his voice heightened, eyes wide, in anger, “Whose profile is he working on?”

“Will—“ Jack starts, tone appeasing.

“I’m sorry Will. Observing is what we do,” Hannibal allows his eyes to caress his delicate features, fortifying the image that has lived within his mind for weeks, willing those scornful blue eyes to meet his. “I can’t shut mine off any more than you can shut off yours.”

“I told you not to psychoanalyze me,” Will snarls at Hannibal as he stands, throws the files in his hands onto Jack’s desk and grabs his briefcase from the floor beside his chair. “Now if you’ll both excuse me, I have to go give a lecture on psychoanalyzing.”

Jack looks at Hannibal, puzzled at Will’s assertion. “I did warn you that he can be...difficult. He requires careful handling. A less direct approach might be more beneficial.”

Hannibal concedes the point with a nod. “May I ask, during intense conversations, does he adopt your cadence of speech?”

Jack nods, “I thought it was a gimmick to get the back-and-forth going.”

“It’s involuntary. He couldn’t stop himself if he tried,” Hannibal has already experienced that personally, after all; Will does indeed require careful handling to that end. “What he has is pure cognitive and emotional empathy. He can assume your point of view, or mine, or that of a psychopath to a frightening degree. It is an uncomfortable gift, Jack. Perception is a tool pointed at both ends.”

Jack nods again, a little sadly. “Well, in that case, maybe don’t poke him with your own in future, Doctor Lecter.”

 _You_ _have_ _no_ _idea_ , Hannibal thinks, suppressing a smile.

“This cannibal you have him getting to know…” Hannibal says instead as he studies the photos of the victims; an idea taking shape. There may be an even better way for him to assist with this case, a gift he can give Will beyond his planned role of sounding board, confidante and provider of comfort, carnal or otherwise, “I think I can help good Will see his face.”

 

*****

  
“Good morning, Will,” Hannibal stands at Will Graham’s motel room door, most charming smile in place, two days after their tentative reunion. “May I come in?”

“Where’s Crawford?”

“Deposed in court. The adventure will be yours and mine alone today.”

Will’s eyes search his face, clear and unobstructed by the shield of his glasses. His lips remain tight, his tongue presses briefly over his teeth causing his lower lip to bulge in a sure sign of disapproval.

Hannibal takes in the rest of Will’s appearance; he’s sleep-rumpled and surly, dressed only in a thin white T-shirt and cotton boxer shorts. Still, Hannibal finds himself wishing there was more skin exposed for him to admire. He glances behind Will, considering whether his reluctance to let him in is borne of their past time alone in a hotel room together or because he has something (someone) to hide. Undeterred, he repeats, “May I come in?”

Will glances down at the cooler in Hannibal’s hand, the same one he’d seen in his room before - less conspicuous if seen frequently enough for an association to form - and turns away, leaving the door open in a silent, begrudging invitation for him to enter.  
  
“I thought I would bring breakfast for us to eat since your premature departure denied us the chance to fulfill our plans to do so last time,” Hannibal says, testing the waters. Will’s only response to that is a scowl while he grabs a pair of jeans from the edge of the bed and, much to Hannibal’s disappointment, pulls them on over his underwear. “I would also like to apologize for the analytical ambush yesterday.”

“You would?” Will asks, sarcasm as sharp on his face as it is in his tone.

“I was taken aback to see you there, as I’m sure you were to see me. I had no idea that the Will Graham I was tasked to meet with was the same Will I’d recently come across.”

“No?” His brows raise at that; he doesn’t quite believe him.

“Will is not so uncommon a name, and you didn’t divulge that you were working with the FBI. To my recollection, you were somewhat disinclined to converse at all. The dots were too few to connect.”

Will shrugs, attempts to hide his discomfit behind surface nonchalance as he sits at the small table by the window, peers through the drapes. “It was just a shock to see you in Jack’s office. I didn't think you were local, with that accent.”

 _Which_ _is_ _why_ _you_ _let_ _your_   _guard_ _down_ , _however_ _briefly_ , Hannibal muses. “As local as you, it would seem. And please, call me Hannibal.”

“Not Han?” Will asks with a rigid smile and gestures for Hannibal to sit.

He eyes Will as he takes a seat, pleased at the provocation, “If you wish, though my friends call me Hannibal.”

Will doesn’t respond this time, just sits back in his chair as Hannibal unpacks the breakfast bowls he’d prepared, passing one to Will along with a plate and silverware, before pouring them each a cup of strong coffee - freshly brewed at home from Italian roasted, Jamaican Blue Mountain arabica beans - from the thermos flask. The aroma temps Will’s tongue to dart out over dry lips, whetting Hannibal’s appetite for something more substantial than just breakfast.

“As we previously discussed, I like to be in control of what I eat, so prepared a little protein scramble to start the day: some eggs, some sausage,” he explains, and Will holds his gaze for a second, pupils wide and dark, betraying a flash of memory as the allusion to the other kind of control they’d touched upon colors his cheeks a warm, rosy pink before he refocuses on his food, scrapes it onto his plate rather than eating straight from the Tupperware in a surprising display of good manners.

Hannibal watches intently, satisfied beyond measure as Will skewers a slice of the home-made sausage on his fork and chews before saying sincerely, “It’s delicious, thank you.”

He tilts his head in acceptance, pausing to eat, to enjoy the sight of Will eating, before continuing, “I felt it imprudent to alert Jack to the fact that we’d previously met, lest we expose the circumstances under which that meeting occurred,” Hannibal throws a casual glance at Will’s unmade bed. “Better to feign ignorance, in this instance.”

“Just keep it professional. I don’t like to mix business with…whatever that was.”

“Pleasure?” Hannibal offers with a wry smile, amused by Will’s apparent difficulty in acknowledging that he was a more-than-willing participant in their shared sexual encounter.

“It won’t happen again,” Will says tightly and peers at him from under dark lashes before he looks back at his breakfast, shaking his head slightly. “We should keep our distance from each other, beyond what’s necessary.”

“Or we could socialize like adults. God forbid we become friendly.”

“I don’t find you that interesting,” he says. It’s disingenuous, meant to sting, a barbed reference to Hannibal’s past assertion that he found Will just that - _interesting_. It doesn’t deter Hannibal. Quite the opposite, in fact. He had observed immediately that discourtesy allows Will to maintain a distance from those around him. He is, after all, incredibly handsome, intelligent; those who would like to get closer, Hannibal is sure, are many, but Will would rather appear rude than vulnerable. He has glimpsed that vulnerability already and looks forward to breaching those defenses for a second time.

“You did before,” he says with a wolfish grin before sipping on his coffee. “I’m certain you will again.” When Will doesn’t say anything further, gaze fixed doggedly on his food, Hannibal sees fit to change the subject. “We have a mutual friend in Doctor Bloom, it would seem.”

Will raises his brows at that, skeptical. “Did she tell you how unstable she thinks I am?”

“She isn’t one to gossip. If anything, she seems protective of you. So is Jack.”

“Really? Sending me out to act as bloodhound doesn’t feel very protective.”

“Alana is against you being back in the field, as I’m sure you know.”

He nods, looks like he’s about to say something but stops, purses his lips instead, changing course. “But not Jack.”

“Uncle Jack knows you have a knack for the monsters. He sees you as a fragile little tea-cup, the finest china used for only special guests.”

“Is that how you see me, Doctor Lecter?” Will asks, placing emphasis on Hannibal’s title in defiance of his earlier insistence that he use his first name.

“Not at all. Rather, you’re the mongoose I want under the stairs when the snakes slither by.”

His expression darkens at that, he frowns before he takes another sip of his coffee. This time, he’s the one to change the subject. “The Shrike didn’t kill that girl they found in the field yesterday. Have you looked at the file?”

Hannibal nods. “The devil is in the details.” He knows, of course, what Will has seen; said details being a product of his own design. He had quickly constructed his own profile of the killer in this case and sought to create a negative so that Will might see the positive. Although he mimicked the wounds found on Elise Nichols’ body, unlike the real Minnesota killer, there was no love in his treatment of this girl; no honor when he plucked out her lungs, still inflated while she battled for breath, and impaled her body on the trophy stag’s antlers, like one would meat on a fork. (Just another pig, in this case, utilized to serve a higher purpose). The tableau intentionally grotesque, but practical in its purpose. “What didn’t your copy cat do? What gave it away?”

“ _Everything_ ,” he says with a rasping sigh, palms spreading before he rubs one over his face. When he looks back at Hannibal his eyes are alight with a spark of exhilaration; the thrill of the chase. “That crime scene was practically gift-wrapped for me.”

Hannibal is thrilled to hear Will acknowledge his gift as just that, pleasure swelling as he watches him jab his fork into the sausage on his plate - made with the remnants of the same girl’s lungs that were left after his dinner last night - and raise it to his lips; his hunger satisfied at Hannibal’s hands. Will’s posture eases as he speaks with zeal, seizes upon every purpose-built detail of the so-called copy cat killing, uses it to validate what he already knew and extrapolate further features of the real killer as he finishes his breakfast.

Hannibal uses his coffee cup to hide the gratified smile on his face and listens, rapt, as Will rhapsodizes about what is only the first of many gifts he plans to lavish upon him.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and for the kudos, comments and bookmarks so far! It's fair to say that this chapter didn't go *at all* according to plan, in part because as I had knee surgery part-way through and ended up in a pain/painkiller addled stupor while writing, so...sorry for that. The whole fic has gone in a slightly different direction than intended and will likely be much longer than I initially estimated - I hope you'll stick with it.- L<3


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here I go again, apologising for the delay in publishing this chapter...*sigh* Take it as a given that I’m always sorry for delays, that I have stuff (don’t you just hate stuff?!) getting in the way of my planned writing time and that although progress is slow, it’s also steady. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, and for your kudos & comments so far (special thanks to louise_strange for extra support & encouragement). As ever, I’d love to hear what you think. <3 
> 
> TW this chapter for canon-typical violence and blood, lots of blood.

Will kills the engine and squints through the rental car’s windshield, sun bright and high in the cloudless sky. They’re parked in front of a cookie-cutter tract house, surrounded by trees and shrubs that are beginning to turn copper and gold as fall transforms the landscape from lush and green to the sparse, withering amber of winter; dead leaves abound, bleak but beautiful.

In his peripheral vision, Will can see Hannibal watching him, lips upturned as though he’s privy to some scintillating secret. Will turns to face him, “What are you smiling at?”

The smile fades from Hannibal’s mouth but still manages to crease the corners of his eyes. “Getting to peek behind the curtain.”

Will huffs out a gruff breath and unfastens his seatbelt, unsure of exactly which curtain Hannibal is referring to peeking behind; the FBI’s or his own. “Well, what’s behind the curtain isn’t always as fascinating as people imagine,” he says, almost rolling his eyes, before he slips his glasses off and pinches at the bridge of his nose to ease the band of tension that is steadily tightening across his brow.

“Another headache?”

“No need to be concerned, Doctor,” Will answers wryly and reaches into his pocket, producing a small white bottle, rattling the pills inside for effect, “I brought my own aspirin this time.”

The direct reference to their first meeting brings a knowing smirk back to Hannibal’s lips and Will finds himself mirroring it before he catches the slip-up, drops his gaze, and pops two of the pills into his mouth, swallowing them dry.

They’ve spent the whole morning together. Impromptu breakfast at the motel (a peace-offering from the man, or possibly a lure; he’s not yet sure which) followed by the first of the day’s investigative tasks; a visit to the cramped trailer office of a local construction site (the only one in the state to use the type of sheet metal that proved a match with the sliver they’d found on Elise Nichols’ body) so that they could search through endless personnel files, looking for anything that might bring them closer to finding the identity of the Minnesota Shrike.

The tension between them has abated by this point, at least to a degree. The silences feel less charged, their exchanges more cordial. Will finds his reaction to Hannibal curious; a bewildering combination of aversion and attraction. From their first encounter, he had felt both disconcerted by and grudgingly appreciative of Hannibal’s unflinching attention. It’s no secret that he had been less than thrilled by the good Doctor’s unanticipated appearance in Jack’s office - and more than pissed off to realize that he was there, in part, to take on the role of professional babysitter to his fragile psyche - but Will doesn’t have a high enough opinion of himself to presume that the psychiatrist’s placement at Quantico was anything other than an ill-fated coincidence.  Even though he hadn’t planned on seeing the man again, much less investigating a case alongside him, Will isn’t exactly a stranger to feeling discomfort at work; he’ll deal with it, just like he’s learned to deal with everything else. He’ll build a fort, bolt the door.  In truth, he’d rather put up with the skin-prickling awkwardness of Hannibal knowing him in a substantially more _intimate_ way than any of his other colleagues than face the toe-curling embarrassment of confessing to Jack - and Alana, if she doesn’t know already, (they are ‘old friends’, after all) - that the reason he doesn’t want Doctor Lecter, in particular, keeping tabs on him is because they had shared a night of semi-anonymous sex just weeks before.

And despite how he’d first reacted when he found a grinning Hannibal Lecter on his motel room doorstep at the crack of dawn, he’s glad now to have had this little time alone with him - without Jack or anyone else around - to clear the air, to make his boundaries clear. (Not that Hannibal necessarily _wants_ to sleep with him again - he knows he’s not exactly a catch - but, whether its real or imagined, he feels like he can still see that shameless, seductive glint in Hannibal’s eye when he looks at him; that he can feel that same interest he’d laid bare before, can hear it in that silky-smooth voice, and it - as well as his own reaction to it - is…inconvenient). Will knows that he has too many emotions that aren’t his own clouding his judgment, undermining his fragile sense of himself and complicating even his most casual relationships. He can’t afford to let anyone get too close. Momentary lapse in judgment and undeniable attraction to the man aside, that door is now closed, and it should stay that way (even if he thinks he can already feel Hannibal toying with the latch).

 

Will exits the car, Hannibal tailing behind him, and scans the carefully tended yard as he readies himself to follow up on the lead that has brought them here, to the outskirts of Bloomington, Minnesota.  It all appears to be perfectly ordinary; a normal house in a normal neighborhood. Appearances, though, can be deceptive and if Will is on the right track - if the simple omission of a forwarding address on Garret Jacob Hobbs’ resignation letter (a needle plucked from a haystack; hundreds of resignations, union membership forms, payroll files, now seized and boxed, held in the trunk of the rental) is evidence of this man’s desire to hide, to buy himself extra time while his residence is traced in the event of an investigation just like this (which is why he wants to visit him right away, before the news of the FBI searching the office of his former employer gets out) - then there is a chance that hiding behind this perfectly normal facade is a cannibalistic serial killer; the antithesis of _normal_.

Will looks back to find Hannibal following slowly behind him. He seems hesitant, and from what little Will knows of him so far, he isn’t a man prone to hesitation - in fact, he’d attest that quite the opposite is true; unlike Will, he seems to know himself, to act with purpose, sure and confident in every move he makes - but before Will opens his mouth to tell him to keep up, he hears the sharp, creaking sound of a door swinging open, a plaintive gasp, and whips his head back toward the house in time to see a woman being shoved out over the threshold, clutching her throat, blood already drenching her clothes as more seeps through her fingers, and she falls, doll-like, onto the porch as the door slams shut behind her.

Will rushes to the woman’s side, attempts to stem the flow of blood but it’s clear that it’s already too late; her eyes are unblinking, unseeing, and her arms, streaked in crimson, gashed with defensive wounds, fall lifeless to her sides. Will grabs for his gun with a blood-slicked hand, kicks in the flimsy front door and calls out the name of the man who, it would seem by his actions, has just admitted his guilt.

Inside, just beyond the doorway of the kitchen, a short, slight man holds a knife against a girl’s throat - the girl just like the others that are missing, as he knew she would be; late teens, slim, auburn-haired and pale-skinned - and she squeals, high-pitched with fear, as the man starts to haul the blade across her throat. At that motion, something snaps in Will, a reflex to protect, and without pause, he fires his gun. (He’d hesitated before, back when he was still working homicide in New Orleans; it had gotten him shot, ended an innocent life and cost him his career as a cop. He isn’t sure why it feels different this time, juse knows he won’t let that happen again). He squeezes the trigger a second time, a third and fourth and fifth, until the knife falls from the man’s hand, his body thrown back and away from the girl now bleeding out on the kitchen floor.

The room spins vertiginously, the air thick with the acrid scent of propellant layered with the dissonant aroma of sausage and pancakes, still warm on the stove. Will drops his gun, sinks to his knees and paws uselessly at the gushing wound on the girl’s neck, hands trembling from the rush of adrenaline, from growing panic, as her blood rushes out, stark against her alabaster skin, like spilled wine as it flows dark and slick across the tile floor.

Blood feels like it’s all around him; warm on his hands, covering his arms, smeared across his glasses and flecked wet, still warm, on his face. The organic hum of it rushes in his ears and it feels hot and slippery, syrupy-thick, beneath him. It puddles under the man, who must be Garret Jacob Hobbs, where he slumps against the kitchen counters, like a marionette whose strings have been snipped, and trickles from the murderer’s slack mouth before there’s a rasping, garbled sound and then, soft but clear, he says, “See?” with a blood-curdling smile in his eyes before the flicker of life leaves them dark, blank, his body limp. In the moment Will does see; can’t help but see, and it terrifies him.

There’s a firm touch to Will’s forearm, drawing his attention away from the man he has just killed, causing him to flinch, and Hannibal is kneeling beside him, moving Will’s hands away from where they are failing to staunch the endless flow of blood from the slash to the girl’s wind-pipe, so that he can circle it with his own firm, steady hand instead in a methodical, life-saving grip. She gasps for every impossible breath, blue eyes wide with shock and horror; her family brunch turned into a bloodbath. “I’m sorry,” he says - thinks he says - before a uniformed officer is pulling him upright and he’s outside, leaning his weight against the rental car, sirens blasting and lights flashing around him as paramedics rush toward the house, the porch where the lifeless body of Mrs. Hobbs still lies, beyond help. One of them pauses to ask Will, “Are you injured? Is this your blood?” while he shakes his head ‘no’ and says simply, “Inside.”

He stays there, slumped against the car, breath ragged in the stagnant air, and relives that same moment again and again as an endless blur of activity ripples around him, until the girl’s body is hauled out on a stretcher, neck dressed in thick gauze, her blood-soaked hair accentuating the unnatural pallor of her skin, and Hannibal by her side - the man who saved her life while it almost slipped through Will’s fingers. Hannibal looks at him as he passes and reaches a bloody hand to briefly, firmly, squeeze his shoulder. “I’ll be at the hospital,” he tells Will. “Call Jack.”

Will nods and watches them pile into the back of the ambulance, the door slamming as the vehicle careens down the narrow road, a swirl of red, dead leaves tumbling on the asphalt in its wake. He pulls himself upright, closes his eyes and attempts to arrange his thoughts into some semblance of order so that he can tell Jack everything that just happened, that he’d managed to do what no one thought he would, what he couldn’t before; he’d pulled the trigger, taken one life to protect another. He wipes his hands on the clean tails of his shirt, gets rid of as much drying blood as he can, before pulling his phone out of his pocket with still-shaking hands and scrolling to Jack’s number. As he waits for him to answer, he realizes that the harsh ringing sound on the line doesn’t make him wince like it usually does, and that the headache that’s been plaguing him for weeks, months now, has all but gone.

 

 *

 

He tells Jack - as coherently as he can - about what happened; it’s a little frenetic, he’s sure, lacking the clarity it calls for but his body is still coming down from the flood of panic and surging chemicals, his voiced raised to be heard over the chatter of officers and paramedics, the murmur of idling car engines.

“I’m not sure exactly how many times I pulled the trigger.”

“It’ll all show in the report. You did what you had to, Will. If the girl survives, we’ll hear what she has to say,” Will flinches at that; _if_. “Get cleaned up, get some rest and get back here on the first flight you can.”

“I want to see the girl first.”

The girl - Will has left her without a father and her father has left her without a mother. The weight of that feels heavy on his shoulders, not least because he can still feel a lingering peal of paternal attachment from her father; she was special to him, despite what he almost did; he wanted to keep her close, keep her with him, always. He was scared to lose her. Will can still feel an echo of his fear, his compulsion to protect what is - was - so precious to him.

“Will—“

“I just…I just need to go to the hospital, Jack. Doctor Lecter is already there with her.”

“Okay,” he says, somewhat placated. “Okay, good. Talk to Doctor Lecter. Have him call me. And rest, Will. You did good. We’ll talk again soon.”

Will nods, as if Jack can see him from the other end of the phone, and ends the call.

  
The drive from Bloomington to the motel in Duluth is a blur; his hands are still tacky from blood and it clings to the steering wheel as he drives. He isn’t sure how he’ll explain that to the rental company, but he’ll worry about that later. No way to cover that with the protective sheeting one of the CSIs had given him, alongside an evidence bag for his clothes, “ _Just_ _in_ _case_ ,” she’d said.

When he’s safely inside his room he strips, bags his bloody clothing as carefully as he can manage and climbs into the shower, heedless of the fact the water has yet to warm up.

His skin prickles with gooseflesh under the cold spray and he feels, for a moment as he watches the water flow pink around his feet, that someone else is there, in the room with him. He tenses, grips the shower curtain and yanks it back, but all that’s there is his own shadow against the chipped bathroom tile, spectral in the bleached glow of the strip light. He’s not sure if it’s relief he feels or something else, but lets out a long, deep breath, pulls the curtain back into place and scrubs his skin until it hurts, until the water runs clear.

 

 *

  
When Will arrives at the hospital to see the girl - Abigail - there’s a police officer guarding the door to her room, looming like a dark shadow amidst the pastel scrubs of the medical staff. He flashes his badge and enters to find Hannibal still there, in the chair by her bed, fast asleep. He feels a strange senseless relief at the sight of him. His face soft, hair falling over closed eyes. His hand rests on the bed, covering Abigail’s, and the slight stretch in the position bares his shirt cuff, shows the bloodstains there, dark and devastating against the crisp white cotton. Will feels a pang of guilt for dragging him into this, his first day of working in the field with the FBI and he saw two lives taken, helped to save a third.

Will sits at the opposite side of the bed, settles in the chair and looks at Abigail Hobbs. Her face is achingly pale, dotted with freckles that earlier, when she had been laying on the kitchen floor bleeding under his hands, he’d thought might have just been specks of spattered blood. She looks painfully young amidst the tubes and wires, frail under the fluorescent light.

He slumps in the uncomfortable chair, eyes flitting between them both, neither stirring in his presence. Hannibal looks placid in slumber; Will hadn’t dared look at him like this last time. He wonders if the Doctor will have nightmares about what he saw today. He’d remained so calm in the face of the savagery they’d witnessed, calmer than Will had. He wonders what it might take to rattle him; if anything can.

Sleep soon takes him, too; the lulling pulse of the heart monitor strangely soothing. He dreams of a dark stag, with vast, twisting, black antlers, its scruff adorned with a plume of raven feathers, entering the room and simply watching him, silently. He doesn’t attempt to chase it away, just allows it to idle in the doorway, unsure if its function is that of predator or protector. It makes him feel unsettled, but not afraid.

The fluorescent grey of the hospital room stings when he eventually blinks awake. He looks at his hands first, is sure he can feel the thick film of blood on them, but when he looks, they’re clean. As clean as they can be under the circumstances. He’s aware of eyes on him instantly, straightens his posture, runs a hand through his hair and looks across Abigail’s still form to find Hannibal, awake and straight-backed as he watches him with almost scientific curiosity.

“Will.”

“I wanted to see for myself that she was still alive.”

“She is, thanks to you.”

Will blinks, tilts his head in not-quite agreement. “She didn’t bleed out, thanks to you.”

“We both played our part.”

“Well, my part orphaned her.”

Hannibal considers Will carefully for a moment, lips drawn into a small pout before he speaks, softly. “You did what had to be done, Will.”

“I know,” he says quietly and clasps his clammy hands between his thighs. He wonders if they’ll ever really feel clean again. “That’s what Jack said.”

“There are worse things one can be than an orphan,” Hannibal says with a surety that implies deeper significance. “She is hardly alone with both of us here, now, concerned for her wellbeing.”

“She’ll be okay?” He’d already spoken to a nurse on the way in, but still, he wants to hear it again. Needs the reassurance.

“She lost a lot of blood, naturally, but there is every chance she’ll make a full physical recovery.”

“Physical recovery.” But what about her mental recovery? This poor kid; witness to her mother’s murder, almost killed by the father she watched die, shot multiple times by an FBI special agent. Now comatose, and when she wakes up she’ll have to find out that her dad was the Minnesota Shrike.

Hannibal sems to hear what he leaves unvoiced. “She will undoubtedly require extensive therapy.”

Will nods and avoids Hannibal’s eyes. “A future patient.”

“Perhaps.”

He’s sure ‘extensive therapy’ is no exaggeration. He grimaces at the part he’s played in her trauma. Neither of them say anything for what feels like too long. Will breaks the silence by asking, “Are you…okay?”

Hannibal’s eyes crinkle, apparently warmed by Will’s concern. “I’m fine. I was an ER trauma surgeon prior to turning to psychiatry. I regret to say, I have seen worse.”

Will nods, a small, sorrowful motion. Something they have in common, then. Feeling self-conscious, he diverts his gaze, and thoughts, back to Abigail. It’s striking how much the girls her father had chosen looked like her. She’ll have to learn that, too, when she wakes up - learn to live with it. He swallows, stands to stretch his stiff legs.

Hannibal’s eyes raise to meet his. “How are you, Will?”

“I have no idea.” He huffs out a humorless breath of laughter and runs a hand through his hair just for something to do, moves towards the end of the hospital bed, edging closer to the door. “I think I’ll go get some coffee.”

“Have you eaten?”

Not since the breakfast you made me, he thinks, but voicing that feels somehow too raw, too familiar. He just shakes his head instead, shoves his hands into his pockets.

“Nor have I.” Hannibal stands smoothly, circles the bed to stand beside Will as he looks pointedly at his watch. “It’s late. We would both benefit from getting some food, and some proper rest.”

“I’d rather stay here, with Abigail.”

Hannibal cocks his head as he looks at him contemplatively. “For her sake or for your own?”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that there is little to be achieved by our remaining here all night.”

“You waited here with her until now.”

Hannibal simply looks at him with a laconic quirk of his brow that implies it wasn’t just Abigail he was waiting for. “She is under expert care, and police supervision. We can leave instruction to be contacted should she wake up. When she does, we would only be asked to leave while she is examined in any case,” he pauses, steps closer and lowers his voice, “Perhaps the first thing she sees when she wakes shouldn’t be the men who were present for her father’s death, and her injury.”

Will knows that Hannibal is right - he probably always is. For that very reason he doesn’t want to admit it. He stays silent, bites at the inside of his cheek as he looks back to Abigail.

“Rest for what will no doubt be a busy day tomorrow would be more beneficial.” Hannibal continues, drawing Will’s gaze back to him. “Unless you simply do not wish to be alone.”

He lets a harsh huff of breath slip from his lips. “No need to worry about that, Doctor. I always have my imagination to keep me company.”

“Precisely my point. Maybe corporeal company would be more beneficial tonight.” He reaches out and places a hand softly below Will’s elbow, a gesture of the comfort he’s offering. Will fights the innate desire to lean into it as Hannibal continues to speak, tone as tender as his touch, “We have both been through something traumatic today. You in particular. I will admit that I would rather not face the evening alone, either.”  
  
Will lets his eyes linger on the dried blood stain on Hannibal’s shirt cuff before glancing at his face, allowing his own voice to soften. “Misery loves company?”

“A more apt idiom, in this case, would be a problem shared is a problem halved.”

“I’m not in the mood for a therapy session,” he says, more of a condition than a refusal, and forces himself to pull away from the tempting warmth of Hannibal’s hand.

Hannibal is still looking at him thoughtfully, soft amber eyes belying the stern set of his jaw. “Nor am I. However, it would be beneficial for us both to lean on each other at this difficult time.”  
  
“Did you talk to Jack?” He asks and Hannibal nods, once. Will sucks in a steely breath. “Did he ask you to do this? To watch me?”

“He did, however that is not the only reason I’m asking.”

Will purses his lips, annoyed by the implication that he’s too fragile to be left alone. He appreciates Hannibal’s honesty, though, as well as - if he’s honest with himself - the unspoken inference: not the _only_ reason.  

“Come back to my hotel, it’s more spacious than your…room. We’ll order in a light dinner and can talk if you wish, or…”

Hannibal leaves the alternative hanging; bait on the hook, to see if he’ll bite. He licks his lips, then frowns at his own telling, if involuntary, reaction to the purposely ambiguous proposal as he looks down at the polished floor, at the door and then, finally, at Hannibal. “Or?”

“Or we could engage in any other activity you feel would be beneficial. Talking is not the only effective means of communication we have at our disposal.”

Will swallows dryly, his throat audibly clicking as he watches Hannibal watch him; his eyes dip to Will’s throat, his Adam’s apple, causing him to remember the feel of Han— _Hannibal’s_ lips there, teeth scraping dangerously, deliciously at his throat. The door he’d previously closed is being tested, pried open; he knows the latch is about to give, but he still can’t help but fight it. “What I think you’re suggesting would be unethical under the circumstances, Doctor Lecter.”

“You are not my patient, Will.”

Will feels his pulse quicken, shoves his hands back into his pockets to stop them from betraying him, from reaching out to touch. “Not officially,” he blinks back at him, resolve ever-weakening. “But we’re colleagues.”

“By the narrowest definition,” Hannibal replies without hesitance. “Two separate consultants for the same institution. We each have other professional concerns. Our extracurricular association hardly poses any significant conflict of interests.”

Will’s eyes narrow and he worries at the skin inside his bottom lip, searching for another excuse to deny himself the comfort that suddenly craves, but knows can’t possibly come without some kind of complication, now. His mind grasps for eloquence, for an objection that won’t come.

Hannibal takes a step closer, dips his head so that Will is forced to meet his penetrating gaze. “Have your concerns been sufficiently addressed?”

Will pouts, still considering - or at least, pretending to.

“If you remain unconvinced, perhaps I could attempt to appeal to your better nature,” Hannibal pauses, allows a small smirk to curve his pink lips. “I have no transportation; you drove us to the Hobbs house this morning and I rode the ambulance here. I would appreciate a ride from you, Will, if nothing more.”

Will sighs softly in surrender (even if the seemingly innocent request for a ride sounds anything but in that sultry voice, that salacious tone). He’s in no hurry to return to his motel room, to look at his battle-stained clothes and face the nightmares that are bound to come, asleep or awake. And he feels calmer for having seen with his own eyes that Abigail Hobbs is alive; he needed the image of her bleeding, wide-eyed and wounded at the scene of a crime (fuck - _multiple_ crimes) to be replaced by something more sedate, if not yet settling.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I’ll drive you back.”

“And dinner?”

“I don’t have much of an appetite,” Will says, and Hannibal frowns deeply.  The sight pains him more than it should. He aches to give in, to relive their previous night together, to draw from Hannibal’s strength. The case is all but over, anyway; maybe Jack Will let him go back to teaching, now the Minnesota’s Shrike’s gone. He lets his eyes fall shut, rolls his neck until it cracks, and adds, “But I could murder a drink.”

He instantly winces at his unfortunate choice of words, shakes his head slightly, tenses his lips in apology as he glances at Hannibal.

“As could I,” Hannibal replies, seemingly unperturbed by Will’s slip of the tongue, and moves to collect his ruined suede jacket. He folds it over his arm and returns to stand at Will’s side, close enough that Will can feel his body heat.

“Just a drink, though,” Will says, utterly unconvincingly even to his own ears.

“Hmm, we’ll see. A man must eat,” Hannibal says, eyes dark in conquest as he motions towards the exit, urging Will to lead the way to what will surely be his own downfall.

He casts a lingering glance back at Abigail, the steady zigzag line on the heart monitor beside her bed. When he looks back to Hannibal, he can’t deny he feels a sudden stab of hunger. Decision made, he swallows his reservations and heads towards the open door.


End file.
